


my thoughts are the cold kind

by maqcy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Lucius Malfoy, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Ambiguous Age, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Broken Bones, Childhood Trauma, Cruciatus, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Drarry, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fainting, Gen, Healing, Heavy Angst, Hogwarts, Hurt, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt!Draco, Hurt/Comfort, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, M/M, Magic, Medical, Nightmares, POV Draco Malfoy, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Poor Draco, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture, Total Angstfest, Trauma, Tropes, Verbal Abuse, Violence, Whump, and yet there's no voldemort, burn - Freeform, but its exactly this bad, but they're about 17 or 18, draco whump, flinching, im horrible, im not really sure what year this is set in, lucius is an absolute twat basically, magical healing, sometimes i say here that its not as bad as the tags say, well i'm ignoring him anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-06-18 18:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15492531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maqcy/pseuds/maqcy
Summary: There's something wrong with Draco Malfoy and as hard as he tries to hide his failings, Harry Potter seems determined to unearth him.aka. nothing but hurt!Draco and angst(Updates every Monday and Thursday)Now complete!





	1. Accidetally Hurt by Friend

**Author's Note:**

> My first Drarry fic and its nothing but whump! 
> 
> These are fills for Bad Things Happen Bingo on Tumblr (I'm maqcyloup, come say hi!) and some of them get pretty dark, so do look after yourselves folks. The chapters will be quite short as fits the drabble-y nature of the Bingo prompts, but it is a complete story so updates will be regular (on Mondays and Thursdays).
> 
> All feedback and constructive criticism is welcome :)

_Accidentally Hurt by Friend_

 

Draco couldn’t focus on Flitwick’s lesson but shifted wearily on his stool. His back pulsed with pain, the raw cuts stinging under his robes, and he stared blankly ahead at the floor in front of his desk. He hadn’t slept last night, the pain keeping him awake, and though his quill hung from his fingers, Flitwick’s voice faded in and out of his awareness and he couldn’t focus enough to take notes.

When the class finally ended, Draco fumblingly shoved his things away into his bag, each movement causing his back to twinge with discomfort but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral. He knew he was a source of shame for his father; he wouldn’t shame the Malfoy name further by being _weak_.

He dragged himself up and out of the room, hurrying when he heard Flitwick call for him. Merging into the crowded hallway and swept along by the rush, he escaped an interrogation from Flitwick and, relieved, he trudged towards Transfiguration. One more class and then he was done for the day and he could lie down somewhere quiet and wait for his back to stop feeling like it was aflame.

“Draco! Draco, wait up!” It was Pansy and Draco ignored her, pushing through idiotic gaggles of first years, his face set in a grimace that he hoped would be taken for bad temper rather than what it actually was, which was pain. “Hey-!” Pansy said, suddenly close behind him. Draco turned away from her, ignoring her. Couldn’t she see that he wanted- needed, to be left alone? He was doing his damn best but she was making it hard and, oblivious as she was, Draco felt furious with her for making it so difficult for him to get through the day without anyone realising what a failure he was.

He was aware of her coming up beside him and then pain, awful pain, exploded across his skin as she slapped him playfully on the back.

“You didn’t wait for me!” she said, just as a sharp, injured noise fell out of Draco’s mouth before he could stop it and he reeled away from her, stumbling into several other bodies in the busy hallway and cringing from them.

“Draco?” Pansy said, staring at him with her dark hair falling in her face. Her hand was still hovering in the air.

“F-fuck _off_ ,” Draco managed before he tried to stumble away, only for a hand to grab his arm. He cringed, turning sharply to find himself looking at _Potter_ , of all people, “Get off!” he snapped and tried to tug his arm out of Potter’s too-strong grip. Potter looked at him with those bright green eyes set in his stupid face, seeing too much. He was such a stupid, arrogant prick, but sometimes Potter looked at him and Draco shivered at the way he seemed to see right through him, see the scars that lay under his clothes. Only he couldn’t, of course, and he’d turn right back to his stupid friends and leave Draco feeling like he’d touched static.

“You alright, Malfoy?” Potter said, his voice low. His frizzy-haired, know-it-all friend was hovering nearby but Potter’s attention was entirely on Draco. Before Draco could drag a snide comment out of his hazy brain, there was suddenly a hand on his forehead and he froze, “You look terrible,” Potter said, taking his hand away, Draco’s skin tingling with the feel of Potter’s skin on his. “You should go and see Madam Pomfrey.”

Draco narrowed his eyes in a furious scowl, “Mind your own bloody business, scar-head,” he snapped. When he went to drag his arm free of Potter’s hand again, Potter let him go with an irritated frown on his face and Draco walked off, his head swimming. Pansy didn’t try to follow and Draco felt nothing but blind relief because he didn’t know what in hell he would have said to her.


	2. Bloodstained Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has blood on his clothes

Draco picked at his food with his chin resting on his hand, listening idly to Goyle chatter on in his slow, rumbling voice about his holiday, even though they’d been back a week now and Draco’s back was mostly healed. But it itched like hell and Draco wasn’t hungry, rarely was.

Crabbe nudged him, “The new Flitter broom hasn’t got anything on the old model, has it?” he said, apparently seeking Draco’s agreement.

“Obviously,” Draco muttered and Crabbe turned triumphantly back to Goyle. Draco didn’t listen to either of them but stared blankly across the hall, fiddling absentmindedly with his fork. His father had been so furious with him, and Draco’s stomach clenched at the memory of his father’s cane slamming into him, heavy as a hammer.

Draco blinked, realising suddenly that he’d been looking in Potter’s direction and that the Gryffindor was looking at him curiously, his foully messy mop of black hair hanging over his frowning brow. Draco looked quickly away and smoothed down his own, perfectly combed hair, his skin flushing hot as he remembered the humiliation of what had happened last time he and Potter had spoken.

When Goyle had stopped stuffing his face, there was a brief awkward silence before Draco realised Crabbe and Goyle both were looking at him uncertainly.

“Ain’t you going to eat that?” Crabbe said. Draco pulled a face and shoved his plate away, dropping his fork with a clatter.

“The standard of food in this dump is _awful_ ,” he said stiffly. “The house elves can’t even get a boiled egg right.” Crabbe and Goyle made noises of agreement even though both of them had dug greedily into their meals.

Draco got smartly to his feet, picking his robes up off the seat. He was wearing just his white shirt and waistcoat because the weight of his robes against his itching back had been driving him insane and he slung them now over his arm as Crabbe and Goyle followed him up to standing and Draco strode off towards the door.

“Malfoy!” Draco heard his name called and glanced sideways, scowling when he saw it was Potter, his stomach turning in unease. What did Potter want now? Draco glanced around warily and saw that several pairs of eyes were on them and he turned back to Potter to glare at him. If the stupid arse tried to talk to Draco about what happened before, Draco swore he would transfigure him into a rat.

Potter made a vague, useless gesture towards Draco’s shoulder and Draco glared at him, “What?” he snapped, trying to sound imperious rather than nervous.

Potter shot him a look of irritation, his mouth going hard just like Draco’s father’s did when he was angry, “You’ve got something on your shirt,” Potter said, glaring irritably at Draco before he walked off, his two friends trailing behind him like puppies, looking at Draco as they walked past. Draco glared back at them before he irritably tugged at his shirt to look at the fabric on his shoulder.

“ _Merlin_ ,” he cursed. There was a splodge of dried blood on the top of his shoulder, completely ruining the expensive white fabric. More importantly, _anyone_ could have seen it, and Draco, glancing around once more, quickly shoved his arms into the sleeves of his robes and stormed out of the hall.

He didn’t even know _how_ he’d gotten blood there, because the scabs on his back weren’t that high up. Maybe it had come from that gash he’d gotten at the back of his head just before the end of last term when his father had made an unexpected visit and ended it by cuffing Draco over the head with the metal end of his cane. That damned cut had refused to stop bleeding everywhere and he’d given up and gone to see Madam Pomfrey, claiming that the family owl had clawed him.

“What was that?” Crabbe said.

“Nothing,” Draco said. “Potter’s just a stupid prick.” Crabbe and Goyle agreed quickly, clearly wary of his bad temper, and Draco headed crossly to his next class, trying desperately to ignore the itchy discomfort of his back and the weight of his robes on top of it.


	3. Dehydration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco makes a quick save

High above the Quidditch pitch, Draco hovered, his hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead. Summer had left the pitch a dry yellow instead of the bright green it usually was and even up here where the air was cooler, the sun still beat down and Draco was sweating. Despite the heat and the dust clinging to his Quidditch robes, Draco felt unusually relaxed. Astride his broom and far up in the air, there were no crowds and minimal talking, only a large expanse of free, open air.

There was no snitch out for training today so Draco performed his drills in his own time and, pulling out of a series of tight summersaults, he drew to a halt in the air to catch his breath, glancing around. The rest of the team were working together at one end, and at the other, Gryffindor were in the middle of a practice game of their own. Draco had tensed briefly when he’d seen that they were scheduled to be sharing the pitch, knowing that Potter would be there, but he’d just resolved to keep well away. From this distance he couldn’t even pick out Potter’s stupid face, even if Potter himself was usually easy enough to pick out from the team due to his smaller size and the way he kept a little apart from the rest of the team, just as Draco did.

Potter was hunting a snitch though and Draco kept Potter in his peripheral as the Gryffindor moved erratically about the pitch, following the movements of the snitch, hoping that Potter wouldn’t try to speak to him. He wanted today to stay relaxed and uncomplicated and Potter was always complicated, always shoving his nose in where he shouldn’t.

Draco went through a variety of manoeuvres: a spiral dive, the three different variations on the twirl, and a series of Wronski Feints, getting closer to the ground each time before he pulled up sharply and soared steadily back up. As Draco was hovering, he watched his team’s drills from a distance and made a mental note to tell Goyle not to bunch up so close to Crabb all the time but to spread out. And Katie Bell needed to practice her blatantly sloppy turning. Glancing down the pitch as he adjusted his seat on his broom, Draco noticed that Potter was zipping closer, a glint of something gold flittering just in front of him, before Draco’s attention was distracted by the sight of Blaise coming to a halt in the air. Draco frowned over at him, uncertain why Blaise was just hovering there when the rest of the team were busily engaged. As Draco watched, Blaise tipped suddenly sideways and Draco’s breath caught.

 _He’s doing a manoeuvre_ , he thought desperately for less than a second, before Blaise’s hands slipped from his broom and Blaise plummeted silently, limp as a doll.

Draco had dropped down into a careering dive as soon as Blaise left his broom and he crouched down, tucking his legs up tight under him as he flew as fast as he could. But the ground was rushing up to meet them impossibly fast and Draco’s chest ached it was pressed so hard to his broom; he couldn’t go any faster.

Barely ten meters from the ground, Draco hurtled into Blaise’s lax form and scrabbled at his robes, grabbing a fistful and trying desperately to curve his broom upwards, but they were too close to the pitch and Draco couldn’t lift Blaise, only succeeding in slowing the bigger boy’s fall before they both hit the dusty yellow pitch in an awful, rolling mess, dust erupting around them. Suddenly motionless, and with hard ground beneath his back, Draco wheezed in noiseless pain, the breath all knocked out of him and his eyes and mouth full of dust. _Fuck_ , he thought blearily as he tried to roll over and started coughing in big wheezes.

“Draco!” A familiar voice said and then hands were on his shoulders, touching him as if to check that he was still in one piece, and he flinched instinctively before forcing himself still.

“Blaise,” he croaked, batting the hands away, “’m fine, check Blaise.”

“Alright, alright,” the person said and Draco scrubbed at his eyes as the blurred figure moved away to where Blaise’s was lying in a heap. His eyes streaming from the dust and the rush of the wind, Draco scrubbed his face to look at the person leaning over Blaise. It was Potter he realised, groaning quietly at the realisation, but, shoving his own irritated aside, he staggered towards Blaise and pulled at Blaise’s robes to help Potter roll him over. Potter patted Blaise’s face and the Slytherin’s eyes opened, dazed but alive. A wave of dizziness made Draco sit back down heavily and then the rest of the team arrived, plus several Gryffindor.

“Wicked save, Draco!” Crabb said, coming over, “You alright, mate?”

“Fine,” Draco muttered and found Potter looking at him from where he was still crouched over Blaise. Hands slapped Draco’s shoulders in congratulations and he forced himself not to flinch but summoned a watery smile in the face of their congratulations and, after a minute to catch his breath, he told himself not to be weak and forced himself to his feet to dust himself off.

“Oh fuck,” Draco said, freezing.

“What?” Potter said. He’d stood up to get out of the way as Montague and Warrington helped Blaise up between them.

“My broom,” Draco muttered as he looked at the splintered remains. _Dammit_ , his father was going to be so pissed. Draco swallowed thickly, before he heard Blaise groan and pulled himself together. He turned around, blankly ignoring Potter’s ridiculously earnest face and strode past him to follow after Blaise and the others. Pucey draped an arm over Draco’s shoulders as he praised him and Draco walked wearily away, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving him feeling like his knees might cave.

“Blaise alright?” Draco murmured to Pucey. He could feel Potter’s eyes burning into his back as he walked away and he glanced back, unable to stop himself, and, surely enough, met Potter’s intense green gaze, reading the irritation in Potter’s face.

“He’s fine, just an idiot,” Pucey said, taking his arm away to pat Draco’s shoulder. “He said he didn’t drink enough, and just fainted right off his broom, the prat. It could have been messy if you hadn’t swooped in. I reckon he owes you a butterbeer, or ten.”

Draco dragged up a smirk, “You tell him that,” he said and Pucey laughed. Draco’s smirk faded, his back and ribs aching from where he’d slammed into the ground. He couldn’t shake the sound of Potter’s voice in his ears, shouting his name like he actually gave a damn.


	4. Doesn't Realise They've Been Injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is clumsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these are steadily getting longer haha, let me know what you think :)

Draco kept his head down all through Charms. He took careful notes and answered promptly when Flitwick called on him, which he did twice, but he could still feel the teacher’s eyes lingering on him and he sighed, resigned, when the class finished and he saw Flitwick heading straight towards him.

“Just a moment, Mr Malfoy!” he called and Draco kept packing up steadily, waiting for Flitwick to reach him. The rest of the students filed out and Draco looked down at Flitwick, trying to keep his expression neutral, “Perhaps you can take a seat, Draco,” Flitwick said. “I think we need to have a word.”

“Sir?” Draco said warily.

Flitwick talked about Draco not concentrating over the last couple of weeks, about his recent, substandard work and how tired he looked. Draco tried to make his expression appropriately contrite and made noises at intervals to show he was listening, even as tired anger bubbled under the surface. He was _trying_ , he really was, couldn’t anyone see that? He knew he was a failure, okay, but he really was _trying_. Flitwick tried to coax what was wrong out of Draco, asking if someone was bullying him, or if he was struggling to sleep, or feeling down. Draco just smiled tightly.

“It’s really nothing,” he said, “just some late nights, you know.” Trying to convince Flitwick he was an idiot rather than hiding something. But Flitwick kept looking at him, concerned, and Draco apologised again and fumbled for a way to extract himself, “I really have to get to class,” he mumbled, which was true. “I’ll try harder with my homework,” he promised.

Flitwick gave him a look like he was disappointed and then only sighed and made a gesture of dismissal, “Very well,” he said, “but you can always come to me, Draco.”

“I’m fine, really,” he lied. Flitwick finally let him go, though he looked troubled and not at all convinced, and Draco hurried off, all but running towards Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Slipping through the door into the classroom, Draco ducked his head against Snape’s glare as he slunk into his usual seat and fumblingly got out his quill and parchment. He could see Potter sitting somewhere up front but he avoided looking at the Gryffindor.

Snape drawled on in his customarily condescending manner and Draco forced himself to stay focused, and to ignore the ache in his ribs. He didn’t look at the back of Potter’s head and tried to push aside all the mixed-up thoughts inside his head. Had Potter really sounded concerned or was he simply being pathetic? Potter was the golden boy, he’d be concerned if _anyone_ fell off their broom, right?

Draco flinched when something small and white suddenly collided with his cheek and he looked up in shock to see Snape looking at him thunderously and the rest of the class turned to stare, including Potter. Draco flushed, looking down at the piece of broken chalk that was now lying on his desk.

“Are we boring you, Mr Malfoy?” he said icily.

“Uh, no sir,” Draco mumbled and Snape narrowed his eyes briefly before turning back to continue discussing- whatever he’d been talking about. Draco rubbed at his cheek to get rid of the chalky smear and glanced down at his notes to realise that he hadn’t written anything in ten minutes or more. He sighed wearily and rubbed at his throbbing head before he started jotting down some of what Snape was saying. He couldn’t process it now, but he hoped he could make sense of it all later, when his head didn’t feel like it was stuffed full of gravel.

Snape finished talking and started irritably putting students into pairs to do a practical.

“Mr Malfoy, you and Mr. Potter can work together,” Snape said sharply and Draco gave Snape a desperate, _you can’t be serious_ look, but Snape just gestured impatiently for Draco to sit at the front beside Potter, and Draco grudgingly heaved himself up, gathered his things and slunk over. Slouching down on the stool, he looked blankly at his notes and blinked at them.

“Page three-hundred-and-one,” Snape ordered and Draco obligingly flicked to the right page, ignoring the green eyes that kept looking over at him from behind round spectacles. Moth-wings and foxglove, right. Draco got up at the same time as Potter and he gave Potter a cold glare. Potter sat back down.

“You get the- stuff then,” Potter mumbled. Draco huffed and walked off to fetch the materials the textbook listed, as well as scales and a stirrer. They used Potter’s cauldron because Draco had forgotten his, something that Snape didn’t fail to notice.

“You sleeping alright?” Potter said as Draco was adding ground peacock beak and Draco startled, turning to stare at Potter. Thoughts of his disturbed night, nightmares chasing him and leaving him sweating and shaking, came into his head.

“What?” he said. Potter couldn’t possibly know. There wasn’t any way in hell.

Potter licked his lips and Draco followed the flick of that pink tongue, “You seemed kind of out of it, you know, earlier, when Snape-”

Draco blushed in remembered embarrassment, “Shut up,” he growled and snatched the next ingredient, rowan bark, out of Potter’s hand and dumped it into the pot.

“I hadn’t measured that yet!” Potter snapped and Draco glared at him.

“Well why in hell didn’t you do that instead of bloody well interrogating me!” he said.

Potter’s mouth opened and closed, “I wasn’t interrogating you, you prat!” he said sharply, colour rising in his cheeks, distracting Draco with the pink flush of it on Potter’s too-pale skin, “I was only asking!”

Draco glared venomously, jabbing the stirrer at Potter’s chest, “Only asking, sure!” he said, mocking, “Like _you_ bloody care, Potter!”

Potter stared at him indignantly, his chest rising in a huff, “I don’t _care_!” he said quickly and Draco narrowed his eyes. Of course Potter didn’t care, he was just a nosy, self-righteous idiot, but Draco was damned if the words didn’t sting somehow. “I- was just-”

“Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy,” Snape said, suddenly right behind Draco, his low voice making Draco jump violently. In his shock, his elbow swung out and knocked the cauldron off its tripod. Draco tried to grab it but he wasn’t fast enough and Potter leapt out of the way as the gloopy, bubbling contents went splashing all over the desk and onto the floor.

Snape sighed heavily and Draco cringed before he could stop himself, finding Potter scowling at him. Snape looked pointedly at his watch.

“You’re all dismissed,” he barked at the class, and then looked back at Potter and Draco, “Detention for the pair of you,” Snape said. “You can clear this mess up in your own time. And _don’t_ use magic. Perhaps that will teach you to be more careful in the future, Mr Malfoy.”

“But sir!” Potter protested while Draco just stood there, “I- we have Quidditch practice.” Draco didn’t know what Potter was on about: Draco didn’t have practice today, but he didn’t correct him. He didn’t really care about getting detention.

For just a second there, he’d felt the panic of having messed up, and heard Snape’s sigh, and he’d braced for a cane to the back. Detention was nothing, even if he did have Charms homework for tomorrow. He resigned himself to another late night.

Snape lifted his eyebrows, “Better get it done quickly then,” he said snidely and walked off, leaving them alone.

Draco exhaled through his nose and stepped away to fetch a cloth as Potter grudgingly righted the cauldron and started clearing their workstation of the materials.

“If you hadn’t been so damn clumsy,” Potter grumbled.

Draco’s temper snapped, “You know what-” he spat, “fuck you, Potter! Like you’re so friggin’ perfect that you’ve never made a mistake in your whole damn life!” He scrubbed angrily at the sticky, foul-smelling liquid on the table, before Potter suddenly grabbed his wrist and he stilled.

“You’re hurt,” Potter said. _Am I_? Draco thought and looked down at his hand to see a livid red burn there, where the cauldron must have scolded him. Once he’d seen it there, a harsh stinging set in and he grimaced, before he managed to make his expression impassive. Potter’s fingers were warm against the skin of his wrist and Draco tugged himself free, turning away to clean off the cloth.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You’re not,” Potter protested and Draco rolled his eyes, though Potter didn’t see. “You should go to Madam Pomfrey. I’ll do this.” He took the damp cloth out of Draco’s unresisting hand, his fingers brushing Draco’s palm and Draco stared at him blankly before he gathered himself.

“Don’t be stupid,” he mumbled and picked up Potter’s cauldron to go and wash it out. They cleaned the rest up in silence, though it seemed to Draco that there was less hostility between them than usual and Draco realised, the thought striking him out of nowhere and making him pause, that he felt somewhat safe with Potter. The idiot was so sickeningly moral and upstanding that Draco struggled to imagine him doing anything that was in anyway underhand or cruel, not like his father was capable of. Hell, what _Draco_ was capable of.

Except, Potter had cast that curse on him, the one that had torn up his skin and left him bleeding in the wet bathroom. But Potter had collapsed down on his knees beside him and, as much pain as Draco had been in, he’d seen Potter’s face; the horror and panic, instead of the coldness on Draco’s father’s. He didn’t think Potter would do it again.

Draco felt slightly sick but he packed his things up numbly, wincing at the discomfort caused by flexing his injured hand. He mumbled a response to whatever Potter said to him as he was slinking out of the classroom, though he hadn’t heard what Potter had said. Out of the door, he hurried off down the corridor and forced himself to slow his unsteady breathing, glancing down at his injured hand with an angry scowl, before he curled it into a fist by his side. He resolved to keep his distance from Harry Potter.


	5. Slammed into a Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco confronts Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today but Thursday's will be longer and heavier. Apologies that this is up later than usual, my WiFi's been down all day.

Draco scrubbed his hand across his tired eyes, dry from staring at old books for far too long, before the burn on his hand sparked with pain and he hissed, glaring down at it. He pushed the discomfort away and shoved his quill and parchment into his bag. Flitwick had offered him extra Charms lessons and Draco had agreed, nervous of performing poorly on tests and having to report back to his father. But Flitwick had had to go to a staff meeting this evening so he’d left Draco with some reading and questions to do before rushing off. It was now nine o’clock and he’d only just finished.

Heading tiredly out of the classroom and into the corridor, he was forced to pause by a wave of dizziness that made him extend a hand to touch the grainy stone wall. He needed to eat and his stomach agreed with a pained clench.

“Draco!” he heard a male voice and straightened sharply to see Potter coming towards him. “I thought you’d never come out of there,” he said, “Flitwick keeping you late?” He came over to stick his head around the door of Flitwick’s empty classroom and raised his eyebrows at Draco. Draco felt compelled to explain why he’d been sat in an empty classroom for two hours.

“He set me work,” he muttered, and then remembered who he was speaking to and glowered. “You stalking me, Potter?” he snapped.

Potter blinked, before his expression hardened. In the dim light, his black hair made his face seem pasty-white in contrast. “Maybe I am,” Potter hissed and Draco fought the urge to back off a step. He subtly glanced sideways but it was relatively late and the corridors were empty. What did Potter want? “I’m worried about you,” Potter snapped, “and it’s damn annoying. I don’t _want_ to care!” Draco stared at him, “But you’re sick, or you’re hiding something, or, I don’t know!” he poked a finger at Draco’s chest and Draco flinched. Potter stared at him. The question, _What’s wrong with you?_ hung in his green eyes. “But something’s not right,” Potter said firmly, looking at Draco with furrowed eyebrows, “you’re acting jumpy and weird, and more than usual. It’s suspicious.”

Draco twitched, his mouth opening and then closing as he struggled for words. What in hell did he say to that? _You’re right, there’s something wrong with me_. But no, he couldn’t tell anyone, and especially not scar-head. They hated each other, that’s just how it was, and he didn’t want this- this ridiculous _concern_. Draco could handle himself, handle this. He’d been doing it for years and he was _fine_.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Draco spat acerbically, forcing fury when really all he felt was defensive, and tired, “I don’t know why the hell you care, but there’s nothing wrong, alright?” he glared at Potter, who looked angrily back at him with furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips. Damn him. Draco shoved Potter in the chest, “Get lost, scar-head,” he snapped, “Hasn’t the great Chosen One got better things to do?”

He went to stride away but Potter grabbed his arm, “Wait-!”

Draco lost his temper. He was tired, his burnt hand throbbed and Potter was being infuriating, and he dropped his bag and lashed out, shoving Potter violently backwards until the idiot’s back hit the corridor wall. Draco glanced each way down the corridor and then, reassured no-one was watching, he shook Potter hard by his lean shoulders, “What is _wrong_ with you?” he growled, “Why can’t you leave it alone? Why can’t you just keep your nose out of everyone else’s business for just once in your goddamned, useless life!” His voice had risen angrily, desperately, and Potter stared at him, his eyes huge and his chest rising and falling with his breaths, but he wasn’t trying to pull away. Draco shook him again, “You’re just going to make everything worse!” he hissed, glaring at Potter, willing him to understand.

He became suddenly aware how closely they were pressed together, with his hands bunched up in Potter’s robes. Glancing over Potter’s stupid, shocked face once more, Draco clenched his jaw and stepped back, giving Potter one final push before he let go and headed off in the other direction, grabbing his bag off the floor as he went. God, he didn’t know if Potter would give way and back the hell off, but, as Draco dragged himself up to Slytherin to collapse exhaustedly onto his bed, he sent up a silent prayer that he would. He wasn’t sure how much more pressure he could be put under before he just crumbled.


	6. Passing Out from Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius makes a visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a heavy one folks, please do mind yourselves and check the tags! Hope you enjoy :)

The owl arrived in the morning and Draco opened the letter it dropped in front of him. IT was from his father and his fingers clenched on the paper as he read it, and then read it again. He felt suddenly incredibly sick and pushed away his toast, the words swimming in front of his eyes.

“Draco?” Pansy said, waving a hand in front of his face. “You look like you’ve seen a bogart.”

“Ha,” Draco said weakly. Blinking, he shoved the letter into the envelope, irrationally infuriated when it wouldn’t go back in, but other Slytherins were looking at him and he forced himself to take a breath and calm down. His father was visiting in two days and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

He floated through the following day and a half and in the last lesson of the week, Defence Against the Dark Arts, he was barely able to focus on anything but the sickness in his stomach. He hadn’t been eating much of anything but besides the rolling tightness of his stomach, he felt mostly numb. Resigned.

He knew that Potter, the nosy arse, kept staring at him, watching him, but he couldn’t make himself care or think of anything to do to stop it. It wasn’t like he thought that things couldn’t get worse; they could, but Draco just couldn’t summon enough motivation to make himself act. He was spending too much energy on just walking through the days and upholding a semblance of sanity and it was exhausting.

“Draco?” Potter tried to catch up with him as Draco was leaving but Draco just ignored him entirely. His head was already two, three hours ahead when he’d be standing in front of his father. Thank Merlin it was Friday and he would have the weekend to gather himself afterwards.

“Leave it, Harry,” that Weasley idiot said, “Malfoy’s just being a twat.”

If Potter replied, Draco didn’t hear it. He climbed the stairs down to Slytherin Dungeon like he was taking steps towards a cliff edge and the closer he got, the harder it was to keep moving forwards. Just before he reached the Serpent painting he froze and two Slytherins nudged past him – ‘you alright, mate?’ – before he managed to nod and keep moving.

“Deadly nightshade,” he mumbled at the painting and the door swung open with its usual creak. The Slytherin Dungeon was a dull place, lit with green-tinged light from the lake, but Draco usually found the noise of the water soothing and it was always cool, even in the height of summer. But today Draco shivered as he entered, flinching when the door closed behind him. He went wearily to his dorm room and put his bag on the bed to mechanically begin unpacking his things. He tried to do his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework but he couldn’t focus and ended up sat at his desk, staring blankly at the stone wall with his quill hanging limping from his fingers, just waiting.

The time his father had set got nearer, both sickening slowly and with alarming haste, and when it finally arrived, he got robotically to his feet and stumbled out of the room and through the common room. Pansy tried to speak to him and he mumbled something before carrying on like a drone set on its course.

Stepping out into the corridor, his heart-rate picked up dramatically and the numbness that had been clouding his head slipped away to be replaced by a trembling panic. He tried to crush it but he wasn’t even part-way successful.

“Draco,” his father said and Draco turned sharply around, tensing rigid at the sight of his father’s silver hair and tall, disapproving form. His black cane, topped with its green-eyed snake, was at his side.

“Father,” Draco murmured.

His father’s hand came out and Draco flinched, but Lucius only took Draco’s shoulder in a harsh grip, “Don’t mumble, Draco,” he said and tugged on Draco’s shoulder and Draco went where he was led.

He was marched in silence up to the third floor, his father’s cold hand remaining heavy on his shoulder and his cane _clicked_ with each step. Lucius pushed Draco through a door and shut it firmly behind them before sliding his wand from his cane and casting a Silencing Charm, his smooth voice echoing slightly in the dark, hollow room. Draco swallowed.

The silver-serpent on his father’s wand seemed to glint as he replaced it inside his cane with a slight rasp. Draco watched it, unable to look at his father’s face.

“It’s a shame,” his father said, “that I have to waste so much of my time,” he prodded Draco in the chest with the cold metal of the snake’s head and Draco flinched but forced himself not to back away. It would only anger his father further, “coming here to attend to _you_ , a stupid, recalcitrant, little boy. And so much of Malfoy money has been _wasted_ on sending you to this school, on upholding Malfoy reputation, and yet you cannot even be bothered to look after your things.” Draco saw his father’s grip shift on his cane and he tensed rigid, ducking his head as he braced, “If you want a new broom, you will have to cease being such a _disappointment_.” The blow came, the black length landing hard and brutal across his spine and Draco cried out sharply, arching his back away from the blinding yet too-familiar pain, and staggering under the force of it.

“You are meant to be a man!” His father shouted, spitting angry, “And yet you are so useless,” he struck Draco again and the sharp, unforgiving metal of the snake hit Draco in the ribs like a hammer and he fell to his knees with a strangled yell. He thought he’d heard something crack inside of him, “that not only must you beg me for new toys to replace the one you _broke_ , but your professor must write to me, complaining of your stupidity, your inattention, your lax manner.” Draco got shakily back to his feet, knowing that if he didn’t, his father would beat him while he was on the ground and the hits were always so much harder. His ribs throbbed. “You are a failure, a disgrace to the Malfoy name.” The cane struck Draco so hard across the back that he was knocked breathless and barely kept himself standing. “Something is _wrong_ with you and Merlin be damned, I know not what it is, but you’re not Malfoy blood.” The next hit _thwacked_ across the small of his back and pain exploded across his skin so viciously that he couldn’t keep himself from collapsing down to his knees. “You are barely more than a _squib_. Better that you had been one than such a useless excuse for a wizard.” His father hissed, the final blow of his sharp tongue.

“Please, father,” Draco rasped, “I’m sorry.” He was shaking violently, his back burning and throbbing and each breath taxed his ribs. He couldn’t tell if it was blood or sweat that was making his shirt cling to his back.

Would this be the end of it? He could never tell whether there would be one round of strikes from the cane, or four. A professor, it _must_ have been Flitwick, had written to his father and Draco knew how furious that would have made him, who prided himself on enforcing Draco’s discipline. To have received a letter implying that Draco’s work was lacking- Draco shuddered. He didn’t know if it was worse that his father had had time to stew over the letter, or whether being in the same room as his father when he received that owl would have left him worse off.

His father didn’t even acknowledge his apology, and a quiet rasp made Draco look up to see his father withdrawing his wand from his cane. Draco felt the blood drain from his face and he shot a desperate look up at his father. But his father’s expression was cold and utterly uncaring and there was only anger in those pale eyes. Draco lowered his head silently and waited, which was all he could ever do. His wand lay in the pocket of his robes, but he never even considered using it. His father had always been more powerful and always would be. And even if Draco got a lucky shot in, what then? He couldn’t hide at Hogwarts forever and everyone he knew was his father’s ally or in his pocket. Hated for his family, and hated by his family; Draco struggled to breathe. He just had to take it, had to be better.

Slowly, deliberately, Lucius bent down to bring his head closer to Draco’s. Draco held his breath, trying to control his ragged breathing.

“ _You disgust me_ ,” Lucius hissed and Draco flinched, his hair falling into his face. His father was so perfect, neat and controlled, and Draco was on the floor, shaking and sweat-slick with pain and fear. He _felt_ disgusting.

His father straightened up smartly and Draco hoped for one, desperate second that he would stride out of the door and leave Draco there on the floor. But Lucius extended his wand to point it directly at Draco and Draco stopped breathing entirely, tense as a bow-string. His father had never-

“ _Crucio_ ,” Lucius spat and there was _pain_. Pain everywhere, pain like fire in his bones and in his skull, so bad that he wanted to black out, to die. Draco screamed and screamed, writhing in agony. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move but to claw desperately at the floor and kick like a man being hanged. When he drew breath, it was only to scream again, bruising his throat with the cries. When blackness crowded in, Draco fell into it with absolute relief.


	7. Troubled Foetal Position

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco suffers the after-effects of his father's treatment

“I’m ill,” Draco croaked at Goyle, glaring tiredly. “Go away.”

“But-” Goyle said, staring down at him, “It’s been three days. _Why_ won’t you go to Madam Pomfrey?”

If he hadn’t have supposed to be at Quidditch practice on Saturday morning, Draco doubted that Crabbe and Goyle would have even noticed his absence until he didn’t show up on Monday, but as it was they’d come all-too-frequently to harass him, nagging at him.

Draco curled his lip angrily, “Are you fucking deaf?” he growled hoarsely, “I don’t bloody well _want_ _to_ , can you get that through your thick skull? Leave me the fuck alone, Goyle, before I break your fat face.” He snatched at his curtain and snapped it closed around his bed. The movement wrenched awfully on his ribs and back and Draco froze to collect himself, holding his breath to stop himself from making a noise of pain.

Goyle mumbled something and Draco sagged in relief when his heavy footsteps shuffled away and slowly, carefully, slumped down into his foul-smelling bed clothes. Besides shuffling to the toilet in the dead of the night to relieve himself and slurp water hungrily from the tap, he hadn’t gotten out of bed in three days and it smelled like it. But Draco couldn’t face it. His back was agony and he’d looked at it in the bathroom mirror and cringed at the sight of the swollen blossoms of blue-purple bruises interspersed with deep scabs where the metal snake-head had bitten into his skin. His ribs ached like they were fractured or broken and Draco struggled to lift his arms. There seemed to be more marks on his skin than times Draco remembered being hit, and the thought that his father had beaten him after he passed out made him nauseous, but perhaps he’d just blocked out some of that awful time. He couldn’t remember walking back to the dorm, but he must have done.

 _Stop being pathetic_ , he ordered himself sharply. He shifted position in bed and hissed air through his teeth at the pain that sparked up his back and sides. _If you weren’t so useless, this wouldn’t have happened_ , he thought. Draco sighed silently, and lay laxly on his stomach; the most comfortable position. He resolved to drag himself out of bed tomorrow. He’d already skipped yesterday after he almost passed out when he tried to climb out of bed, but he couldn’t afford to rest any longer, not without risking Flitwick sending another disastrous letter to his father.

With that sobering thought in mind, Draco forced himself to do his homework that night, sitting rigidly at his desk at midnight, leaning forwards to stop his back from touching the back of the chair, his left hand curled around his damaged ribs. He wrote carefully, taking extra time over Flitwick’s to make sure it was well-researched, neatly written and slightly longer than it was meant to be. Concentrating was difficult with the pain he was in but he managed. Rolling it up, he hoped desperately that it would be enough. That Flitwick would back off, and Potter too, the interfering, suspicious idiot.

Draco slid back into bed around three in the morning and dozed restlessly for four or so hours until the others in his dorm were stirring. Despite spending so much time in bed, he still felt exhausted. The pain in his back made it hard to get remotely comfortable and any sleep he’d managed to get had been interrupted when he’d wake, sweating and gasping, with a feeling of absolute, indescribable terror coiled up inside him, like a snake wrapped around his chest, stopping him breathing. He could never remember what he’d been dreaming but it wasn’t much of a stretch to guess at the reason. He knew he’d never forget the agony of that _crucio_ as it blazed through him and left him as nothing more than a wordless beast, nothing more than that pathetic, twitching spider that Mad-Eye had tortured in front of them all in class.

Draco forced himself up to seated and, painfully aware of the sleepy, scuffling noises and low talking of the other Slytherins around the dorm, he clamped his hand over his mouth to smother the whine of pain at the movement. He curled awkwardly up, his arms like clutching vines around his calves as he folded his legs up to his sore chest and pressed his head to his knees, trying to breathe through the pain in his ribs and the panic in his head. The position hurt, but he just needed the illusion of holding himself together, perhaps even of _being_ held.

He didn’t know how he was going to survive today; answering questions on his absence and pretending as if his father hadn’t thought him so useless, so _unlovable_ , that he’d inflicted an Unforgiveable Curse on his own son just three nights ago. Draco fought back tears, digging his nails into his arms to force himself to focus. He told himself sharply that he had to stand up, had to wash and dress and walk himself to breakfast, or the kitchens at least, because he was empty enough that he thought he’d faint if he didn’t eat _something_ soon, even as the thought of forcing something down made him feel faintly sick.

But he had to. He had to be better, had to be good. Had to protect Malfoy honour and prove himself if not worthy, then at least not a disgrace. Which was what he was right now.

He allowed himself just one more second to press his forehead to his knees and just _be_ , within the safe circle of his own arms, and then he gritted his teeth and set about getting out of bed without crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone's still enjoying the story :) thank you for your comments, I love getting them <3


	8. Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry won't be ignored any longer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a slightly longer one today :) also a bit of heavy one, hope people like it!

The day was hellish. When he was injured, he was always overly aware of the people around him and today there seemed to be people everywhere, and every one of them too close to his back and his ribs. He had to field questions on where’d he been and why he’d missed practice, and hear that Snape had set them a three-foot-long composition on the Imperius Curse. Draco had laughed sharply, darkly, when he’d heard, and his friends had shot him a confused, worried look. Draco had already completed a practical on the Cruciatus Curse. An essay on the Imperius didn’t seem so bad.

It was the last class of the day, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and he’d felt Potter’s eyes on his back. Ten minutes from the end, with his ribs throbbing something awful and his head aching from the rigidity with which he was holding himself upright, he finally turned to shoot Potter a hateful glare, sick of feeling the Gryffindor watching him. But Potter just looked right back at him with his stupidly wide eyes and it was Draco who eventually gritted his jaw and turned back to the front. His burnt hand added its own sparks of pain to the litany of the rest of his injuries and he glared down at it as he struggled to use it after being forced to take notes all day.

“Draco!” he heard as he walked quickly out of the class, trying to slip away from Potter. He seemed to manage it as he hurried away.

He felt sweaty from the pain, disgusting and exhausted, and he slipped into a bathroom, dropping his too-heavy bag on the grimy floor tiles before he bent down gingerly to splash his face with water, trying to bring himself out of the haze of pain he’d fallen into.

He heard footsteps behind him and ignored them, keeping his head down, but a hand touched his arm and he spun around in shock to find Potter staring back at him. The sudden movement taxed his ribs but he hid the pain behind a mask of irritation. The hell was Potter doing, ambushing him?

“Where were you yesterday?” Potter demanded. His gaze flickered over Draco’s face and Potter’s frown deepened, “You look awful,” he said quietly.

Draco forced a sneer even as ice-and-fire pain was crawling over his back and unease gathered in his stomach, “You always look awful, Potter,” he snapped and tried to move past the shorter student. “Get out of my way.”

“No,” Potter said sharply, before he glanced around, but the bathroom was empty now, “Not until you tell me what the bloody hell is going on with you,” he hissed.

Draco, scared and angry, raised his fisted hand, snarling, ready to hit Potter if it would make the Gryffindor leave him alone.

Potter cringed away, releasing Draco’s arm and Draco froze, staring at Potter’s wary expression as water dripped quietly in the background. Was _that_ what Draco looked like when his father lifted his cane? Draco swallowed, lowered his arm and tried again to walk away, only for Potter to put his hand out in front of Draco’s chest, halting him.

Draco knocked Potter’s hand away weakly, “ _Move_ ,” he ordered.

He tried again to get around Potter but the Gryffindor grabbed his shoulder, right on top of a scab and a bruise, and Draco cried out sharply in pain and at the shock of it. His voice was painfully loud in the small, echoing bathroom, and he recoiled from Potter like he’d been burnt, until his hip hit the sink and he stopped.

Potter stared at him, “You’re hurt,” he said.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Draco all but shouted and when Potter took a hesitant step towards him, Draco backhanded him across the face with a _slap_ that reverberated off the stone walls of the bathroom. Draco stilled, but Potter, briefly stunned, shook the shock off faster than Draco did and lunged forwards to grab a handful of Draco’s robes before Draco could stop him. Then there was a wand in Draco’s face and Draco felt cold, awful terror seize him. He stiffened. Potter glanced both ways around the bathroom, checking again that it was empty.

 _Shield charm_ , Draco thought desperately, but he couldn’t- “ _Petrificus Totalus_ ,” Potter hissed and Draco whimpered as his entire body was immobilised, every joint locking up. He couldn’t move, or talk but only move his eyes to stare at Potter. He knew he was going to fall and, his back twinging, he used the tiny amount of movement he had left to push himself forwards. He would rather fall on his face than his back right now, even as actually finding himself tilting forwards, and being unable to do so much as put his hands out was terrifying.

Then Potter’s arms closed around him and Draco would have hissed at the pain in his back and ribs but he couldn’t make a sound. Holding him tight, Potter lowered him to the floor with surprising care, laying Draco on his front, for which he was gladder than he could say. Lying on his back would have been excruciating, and he wouldn’t even have been able to plead with Potter.

“Remember doing this to me on the train?” Potter murmured. His face turned sideways, Draco glanced desperately around with his eyes but there was no-one about. Did Potter want revenge, was that it? Draco remembered stomping his foot down on Potter’s stiff face. ‘For my father’, he’d said, because his father had been so furious, and Draco had received the brunt of it. Draco recalled finding blood from Potter’s bloody nose on his sock that night and feeling sick. He’d felt powerful when he did it, just for a few seconds, but it had faded into self-loathing and guilt. “It’s not fun, is it?” Potter said. Draco tried to move his hands to reach his wand but couldn’t so much as twitch.

Potter crouched down beside him and Draco looked up at him warily. The Chosen One would never use an Unforgiveable Curse, would he?

Then Potter tucked his wand into his pocket and Draco relaxed minutely, before Potter’s hands were abruptly touching his robes, tugging at them. Draco inwardly flinched with a hiss of pain, but on the outside he was silent. What the hell was Potter doing? A cold terror like a stone settled in his stomach as Potter kept pulling, pulling his robes up.

“You’re hurt, I know you are,” Potter mumbled as he pushed Draco’s robes up so they were bunched up on his shoulders. “What is it?” Potter muttered as Draco panicked and silent tears dripped down his face, going unseen by Potter. “A dark mark brand?” Potter said as he untucked Draco’s shirt, “Some sort of dark-magic tattoo, or a ritual spell- oh.”

The air was cool on Draco’s ruined back where the skin was exposed entirely for Potter’s gaze. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , Draco thought brokenly. But what in hell could he do? What in hell-

Potter cursed quietly, “Who did this, who-” Potter had shifted to look at Draco’s face and Draco hated the shock and pity he saw there, and Potter’s expression only crumpled further when he saw Draco’s face. “Oh dammit,” Potter whispered, “I’m sor-, come on,” he gently covered Draco’s back again with his shirt and then his robes, “ _Finite incantatem_ ,” he said softly and Draco dragged in a huge, painful breath, his ribs protesting sharply. He scrabbled to get up off his stomach and shoved Potter away from him weakly when he tried to help.

“Don’t fucking _touch_ me!” he snarled and Potter drew back like he’d been stung. Draco staggered to his feet and Potter got quickly to his.

“Draco-” Potter said.

“Stay _away_ from me,” Draco said, trying for threatening, but his voice broke and he was still crying. He scrubbed angrily at his face.

“Who did that?” Potter demanded, desperation on his face.

“Why?” Draco snapped as he was turning away, grabbing his bag. His back protested at the twist, but Draco just needed to _get away_. “Want to shake their hand?”

There was a beat of silence before Potter was coming up to him and Draco flinched away, didn’t even try to hide it anymore. Potter stared at him. His expression would have been comic in any other situation.

“You’ve got to go to Madam Pomfrey,” Potter said, keeping pace with Draco as Draco left the damn bathroom but, thankfully, not trying to touch him anymore, “Draco, you’ve _got_ to.” Draco ignored him, “She can fix it, it could get infected, Draco! Listen to me!” Draco clenched his jaw as Potter pleaded with him, the stupid idiot, “Whoever did this, they need to be punished, this is wrong! Whoever it is-”

“Fuck off, Potter,” Draco muttered, keeping his voice low and his head down as a couple of first-years walked past. “You just want to- to _humiliate_ me.”

Draco heard Potter inhale sharply, “ _I do not_ ,” Potter snapped and Draco shot him a wary glance. Potter stopped abruptly and Draco kept walking. Would that be the end of it? At least for today?

“If you won’t go to Madam Pomfrey,” Potter said, suddenly firm, “I’ll tell Professor McGonagall.”

Draco looked warily around for listeners but the first-years had passed by and they were alone in the corridor.

“You won’t,” he snapped, but the threat scared him. His father was too powerful. No-one would believe Draco even if he _did_ tell he truth. And if, by some miracle, they did believe him? Draco would have no home, no family, no honour. He’d just be some tell-tale prat who couldn’t take a stern talking-to. People would look at him with pity, but they’d think him weak and Draco wasn’t fucking _weak_.

“I will,” Potter said icily. “Madam Pomfrey won’t tell anyone, she’ll help-”

“No!” Draco said fiercely, desperately, “I won’t go, okay? I _won’t_.” _Please back down_ , he thought, _please say you were only bluffing_.

Potter chewed his lip and stared at Draco, “Come and see Hermione then,” he said finally and Draco stared at him incredulously, but Potter nodded like it was decided. “She’ll know how to heal you. She won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

“ _No_ ,” Draco said, but he could fast feel everything spinning out of control around him. Potter knew, he bloody _knew_.

Potter set his jaw as he came over to stand in front of Draco, “You’re coming,” he said, “or I _will_ tell McGonagall. This is wrong Draco, you’re _hurt_.”

“So what?” Draco snapped, and then forced himself to lower his voice, “So what?” he repeated, “What do you care? We hate each other, remember?” He prodded a finger at Potter’s chest, “ _You_ did just as much damage with that curse when we fought in the bathroom last term, remember that?”

Potter looked guilt-stricken but didn’t deny it, “I know,” he said quietly. “I never would have done it if I’d known. But you were going to _crucio_ me,” he said.

Draco swallowed. Potter was right. If he hadn’t hit Draco with that god-awful curse - Draco had never found out what it was - then Draco would have put the Cruciatus Curse on Potter. And he knew now that Potter didn’t deserve that kind of pain, felt sick at the idea of pointing his wand at _anyone_ and saying that word.

“Exactly,” Draco said and glared tiredly. “You shouldn’t give two shits about me. Go away, Potter.”

“No,” Potter said, but it was soft this time. His hand moved towards Draco slowly and Draco watched it take hold of his wrist, “Come on,” Potter said, “Hermione will fix it. Please.”

Draco gave up. He found himself thinking that maybe Hermione could stop it hurting- but he shouldn’t be thinking like that. He deserved this, didn’t he?

“Come on,” Potter said and Draco let himself be led. He was damned whatever he did.


	9. Painful Wound Cleaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gets fixed up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slurs in this one - we're in Draco's head and he uses racist language.

The walk up to Gryffindor felt painfully long, and not just because of the pain. He tugged his wrist out of Potter’s hold at some point and Potter, though he glanced back, didn’t say anything, since Draco continued, wearily, to follow him. Though Draco had forced himself through a bowl of porridge from the kitchens that morning, he hadn’t been able to eat lunch with the pain of his back making him feel sick and now he felt like he could collapse.

He straightened his spine automatically and forced a disgruntled, cold look onto his face to mask his discomfort. He wondered whether he looked anything like his father when he did it, or whether he still looked like a pathetic _boy_.

Potter brought him to a portrait that Draco recognised as the Fat Lady. What was Potter going to do now? Draco couldn’t go into Gryffindor.

“Wait here,” Potter ordered. Draco stared at him, thinking that he could leave the moment that Potter was out of sight, and Potter narrowed his eyes, “I _will_ tell McGonagall,” he said firmly and Draco glared at him.

“Five minutes,” Draco spat and Potter nodded, despite them both knowing that Draco had no leverage here, before Potter disappeared inside, speaking the password too low for Draco to catch and leaving Draco stranded in the corridor.

It was more like ten minutes before Potter returned and Draco was leaning his shoulder on the wall to stay upright, glaring at any Gryffindor that walked past and dared to glance at him. Granger, the muggle-born, followed Potter out and Draco glared irritably at her. Merlin, all he wanted was to lie down and get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, and it was Potter’s fault that he wasn’t.

“Come on,” Potter said.

“Where _now_?” Draco snapped.

Potter glanced at him, “Room of requirement,” he said and set off, Hermione staying by his side, looking Draco over with an unreadable expression. What had Potter told her? “It should have what we need.”

Draco rubbed his sweaty forehead and forced himself to walk after Potter, even as his back was burning unbearably. His pride refused to let him show weakness in front of his sworn rivals, especially a mud-blood like Granger.

But by the time they’d reached the hidden room, which Draco knew a little too well, his vision was clouding with grey and he was forced to stop to lean against a wall and lower his head, or else pass out.

“Draco?” Potter said with something that sounded absurdly like concern. The sentimental idiot.

Granger had opened up the door by walking the three times back and forth and now stood in the doorway, watching him silently with her dark eyes, and Draco shook his head at the bizarreness of all this before he righted himself unsteadily and reluctantly allowed Potter to take his bag off him.

Draco managed to get through the doorway on his own two feet and he glanced around the room, which had arranged itself into a sick-bay much like Madam Pomfrey’s. Through blurred eyes he saw Granger searching through cupboards and then Draco’s ears started ringing and his vision descended into blackness.

*

Draco woke to a searing pain in his back, and clean sheets under his nose. He whined softly in protest to the pain.

“Sorry,” he heard a female voice say, “I’d hoped to do this while you were asleep-”

There was another sharp spike of pain and Draco cried out and tried to get up off his stomach to find out what the hell was happening, but warm hands on his arm – bare, he realised – stopped him and he looked up sharply to find Potter’s green eyes looking solemnly back at him.

“Hermione’s just disinfecting your back,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you’ve got to keep still. Hermione says she doesn’t want to risk giving you pain medicine, not when she doesn’t know the right dosages.”

“Can’t you just-” Draco started abortively, and was cut short by a shot of pain that made him hiss and cringe away, even as he tried to keep himself still, “-fix me with magic?”

“I’ll do my best,” Granger said, “but I don’t know a spell to stop infection and I don’t want to heal them with germs inside. Harry said you refused to go Madam Pomfrey.” There was something like quiet condemnation, or disappointment, in her tone but she hid it well enough.

Draco growled an agonised response into the mattress as he shoved his face into it to muffle his pained noises at what felt like liquid-fire being dabbed over his injured back with a tentative cloth. He clutched at the sheets with his fists, shaking. He wondered whether Granger’s talk of germs was bullshit and she just wanted to get back at him for all his petty, and not so petty, cruelties over the years, but no, the Golden Trio was surely too honourable for that.

A hand on his sweat-damp hair made him freeze, almost forgetting the pain that leached across his skin. Potter’s hand, it had to be, but the fingers combed very lightly through his hair and a shiver, for once pleasurable, went down Draco’s spine and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It felt _good_ and Draco feigned as if he hadn’t noticed, doing his level best to keep his head still so as not to scare Potter into stopping. And as long as Draco didn’t think too hard about _whose_ fingers were stroking him so carefully, he could enjoy it, and damn what the mud-blood thought. Draco was in too much pain to care, and it had been too long since someone touched him like that.

Still, he was more glad than not when Granger finally finished cleaning the scabbed gashes and Potter retracted his hand.

“I’ll try the spell now,” Granger said.

“Get on with it,” Draco muttered. He felt exhausted. Brief, sharp pain was one thing, but pain that dragged on over days wore him down like nothing else and recently he felt like he’d hardly spent time when there wasn’t _something_ hurting him.

Guilt bit at him, though, for not protesting this. He was supposed to suffer the pain of his punishment, wasn’t he? This wasn’t what his father would have wanted. But Draco did nothing to stop Granger from lifting her wand, though he did tense. What had Potter told her in those ten minutes Draco had been waiting outside? Could they have brought him here to extract information about the Dark Lord out of him? Unlikely for sure, and yet-

But Granger, holding a book in one hand, firmly said, “ _Vulnera sanentur_ ,” and waved her wand, and Draco felt a rush of first heat and then blissful cold, soothing his back and he released a strangled gasp and pushed his forehead back into the sheets to stop them from seeing the tears on his cheeks. A strange itching was followed by unbelievable relief and Draco slumped limp, bringing up a hand to press to his head. He could feel that the bruises were still on his back, and his ribs still ached badly, but the deep, stinging gashes were mostly knitted up and Draco breathed easier.

He lifted his head, wiping his face quickly, and gingerly went to turn over, only for Granger to put out her hand, “Wait,” she said, “I can do the bruises too, just keep still.”

“No,” Draco muttered and kept pushing himself until he was lying on his less-injured side. Tiredness crowded in and he let his eyes fall closed. “Leave it.”

“Do it, Hermione,” he drowsily heard Potter say.

“But,” Granger murmured, “his consent-”

Draco forced himself to open his eyes again and shot Granger a fierce look, “Don’t bloody well touch me,” he hissed tiredly. Granger looked back at him for a long moment but then she nodded and relieved, Draco let himself sink back down.

“Hermione,” he heard Potter protest.

“ _No_ , Harry,” Granger replied. “We’ll try again when he wakes up. Let him sleep.” And Draco did.


	10. Trying to Wake Them Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has an accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer one today, hope you like it :)

Potter had been vehemently against Draco returning to classes after the Granger girl had healed his cuts. And he’d all but demanded that Draco allow Hermione to heal his bruises. Draco had argued back irritably and Granger had eventually sided with Draco, to his surprise. _It’s his body_ , she said reasonably, though she seemed disgruntled to be agreeing with him, _and if Draco feels well enough then it’s his choice_. Potter had glared furiously at the both of them.

“I just don’t understand _why_ you won’t take a few days off, at least,” he protested for the tenth time.

After avoiding the question for longer than he had patience for, Draco finally snapped, “I _can’t_ ,” and Potter fell silent, eying Draco sideways. His protests after that had been minimal.

It wasn’t as if Draco wasn’t in pain. His right ribs were tender to the touch, particularly when he breathed in, and any sudden movements, or really any movements at all, made them twinge with a sharp pain that he had to be careful to hide. And the bruises across his back were still there, making it exceptionally painful to lean back against anything, but as long as no-one touched him and he was careful, it was bearable. It was certainly far better than it had been before Granger partially healed him and Draco acknowledged, if only silently to himself, that he was in her debt.

But despite the remaining pain, he did his level-best to return to normal and, to his immense relief, Potter didn’t harass him further or drag him to McGonagall or that bumbling fool of a headmaster, Dumbledore, though he frequently sent Draco too-knowing glances across the classroom. And Granger, when Draco very rarely saw her, pretended as if he didn’t exist, which suited Draco just fine.

 

In the Quidditch locker room a week later, Draco sat on a bench as, careful of his damaged ribs, he strapped the Quidditch brown, leather hand and arm guards on over his robes. The twisting and bending of the act of changing clothes left him sore and breathless with pain from his ribs and he paused a minute, sweating, to get himself back under control.

“You coming, Malfoy?” Warrington, the captain, yelled at him.

“Coming!” Draco called back. He grabbed his loaned broom – glaring at the sorry-looking thing for a moment, with its scuffed handle and several bent twigs – before he headed out into the bright sunshine. The heatwave hadn’t yet passed and Draco licked his dry lips and walked quickly to catch up with his team members though he didn’t jog, his ribs still too tender.

Warrington had them practicing tighter turns and teamwork, apparently putting some theory into practice that he’d been teaching the team last week, which Draco had missed. Warrington mostly had him hover on the edges and watch but where a seeker was involved he instructed Draco on the formations and tactics they’d been looking at and Draco did his best to follow along.

Two bludgers and a quaffle were released half way through and Draco withdrew to the edges to nurse his ribs and practice his own manoeuvres. He glanced down the pitch and quickly picked Potter out of the Gryffindor team. From this distance, Draco couldn’t see Potter’s eyes, but a moment later the Gryffindor turned his face towards Draco and Draco looked quickly away, feeling a shiver down his spine despite the heat.

“Malfoy!” Draco heard his name yelled and he turned towards it in time to see a blur of black heading towards him, but he wasn’t fast enough to do anything but to throw his arm up to cover his face.

The bludger, because that was what it was, slammed into Draco’s side, right on his injured ribs, and Draco couldn’t get the breath to cry out at the blaze of pain that exploded all through his torso like he’d been hit by the Whumping Willow’s branches. It was all he could do to cling onto his broomstick, the wood rough and unfamiliar under his damp fingers.

But he couldn’t breathe, his chest too tight, and the bludger was coming for him again and Draco, curled over in desperate pain, forced himself to drop his broomstick down. He headed in awkward jerks down to the dry grass, afraid that he was faint off his broom like Blaise had. _Don’t break the broom_ , he thought desperately through the pain, _don’t break another damn broom_.

“Draco!” he heard as he clumsily landed and collapsed off the broom onto his knees, clutching at his chest as he tried desperately to get air inside his useless lungs, and he saw blurred figures heading towards him. He felt like he was drowning somehow, within his own body, and he tried to cough but the pain increased exponentially and he sobbed silently, breathless.

There were hands on his shoulders, on his face, trying to get him to look up. Draco coughed and his lips felt wet and tasted metallic. He felt like laughing. _Killed by a bludger_ , _how suitably pathetic._ He closed his eyes.

“Draco!” It was Potter’s voice and Draco coughed in ragged gasps and tried to suck at the air but couldn’t get enough in.

“Potter-” he said, some insult or quip or threat on his tongue that he couldn’t voice.

“’Harry’,” Potter said, sounding strained. “It’s ‘Harry’, call me ‘Harry’ you idiot.” Draco’s ears were ringing again and he braced to pass out, “Come on, stay awake,” Potter sounded panicked and Draco almost smiled. The stupid idiot, caring about _him_.

“We’ve got to get him to Madam Pomfrey, right now!” Someone else, Warrington maybe.

The blackness was clouding in and Draco’s head lolled back. The pain was still there but he felt…relaxed. He tried to tell Potter something, though he couldn’t think what, but before he could, he passed out.

*

Draco came awake slowly, groggily squinting against the bright, warm light. He groaned quietly and shifted. The sheets of the bed smelled odd, not like his own and he opened his eyes properly and looked up at a high, arched stone ceiling.

“Ah! Mr Malfoy is awake, I see.” Draco looked across the hospital wing and saw Madam Pomfrey in her dark red and white medical robes sat some distance away, reading a book. She lifted her eyebrows at him.

“Draco?” Draco startled and turned sharply to see Potter sat on a chair beside the bed. He looked tired and his usually unruly hair was unwashed and particularly wild, his glasses sat a little crookedly on his face until he lifted them to rub his eyes. Draco realised that Potter had been napping, at _Draco’s_ bedside, and he stared at Potter, wondering why the hell he had done that.

Draco lifted a hand to his lips, remembering the liquid there, and then touched his bare ribs but there was nothing. It hit him suddenly: he wasn’t in pain. None. Even the burn on his hand, which had been mostly healed, was gone.

“What…what did you do?” he asked stupidly. No pain, no need to school his expression, no need to be wary of his movements. And yet the last thing he remembered was thinking he was _dying_. He looked down at the white sheets blearily. Everything kept changing around him and it was all moving too fast.

“Harry, dear, if you’ll excuse us?” Madam Pomfrey said pointedly and Draco glanced at Potter. _Harry_. Draco tried the name out in his mind as he looked at the stupid Gryffindor. Harry quirked a small smile at Draco and Draco just looked at him. Harry was here, by Draco’s side. But it was just because he pitied Draco, and he had an over-developed sense of duty, wasn’t it? It wasn’t _Draco_ he was watching over, it was _any_ student who Harry thought needed help.

He looked over as Madam Pomfrey approached his bedside and took Harry’s seat, giving Draco a gentle look.

“How are you feeling, dear?” she asked and Draco shrugged, marvelling for a moment that he could make that motion without pain. “You might feel a little dizzy, but that’s just a small side-effect of the ferula I cast. I put quite a lot of magic into you, dear, to get you all back to normal.”

“Thanks,” Draco said grudgingly, twisting the starched white sheets between his fingers.

 “Now, Mr Malfoy,” she said, “how did we get that rib injury?”

Draco swallowed, “Quidditch,” he said. He wasn’t looking at her but the nurse’s brief silence spoke volumes.

“And when was this?”

Draco shrugged, trying for nonchalance, “How long was I asleep?”

“You’ve been here overnight, dear,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I think you needed the rest.”

Draco blinked, looking out at the daylight outside, “It’s Saturday?”

“No, dear, Sunday.”

“Oh,” Draco said. Of all the times this couldn’t have happened, the weekend was the best of them. But he did have work, especially Flitwick’s, that he knew he had to get done for Monday.

“Draco,” Madam Pomfrey said, and Draco looked over at her, “believe me when I say that I have heard every story, and that I know far too much about the things you young wizards get up to.” Draco’s gaze slipped away from hers, “I’ve seen it all before, dear, so please do tell me how you injured your ribs.”

Draco looked up, “Quidditch,” he said firmly.

She gave a little sigh, “I know you didn’t injure them yesterday, dear,” she said and gave him a half-stern, half-sympathetic look, “because I could feel that they were already partly healed, though not very well.”

 _Shit_ , Draco thought, “I don’t know what you mean,” he muttered.

“Two broken ribs,” she pressed. “That must have been extremely painful. Why didn’t you come to me?” Draco was silent and she put a comforting hand on his arm. Draco had to force himself not to flinch. “I don’t ask too many questions, Draco,” she said gently. “If you were in pain, I would have fixed it.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco gritted out and she took away her hand. _Fucking dammit._ Bad enough that Harry knew, and now this? She would tell Dumbledore, whatever she said, and that would get back to his father, if they hadn’t already told him.

Madam Pomfrey sighed and smoothed down her skirts with her hands, “Draco,” she said heavily and he glanced at her, “I’m not sure you understand how serious your accident was.” Draco swallowed, “I’m not asking for answers that you don’t want to give, dear, but one of your broken ribs punctured your lung when the bludger hit you.” She paused briefly, and her tone lightened, “Those bludgers need padding, I have told Dumbledore countless times – safety first! But he doesn’t listen.” She patted Draco’s leg over the sheets and Draco startled at the contact, before forcing himself still. She paused and he knew she’d seen his flinch. “Well, dear, I shan’t ask you anything more,” she said with another sigh, “but I want you to know that you can always come to me and I’ll fix you right up straight away.” Draco nodded mechanically and she got up, walking away with a swish of her robes.

When Harry came back in, Draco realised both that Madam Pomfrey had gone to fetch him, and that Harry had been waiting outside.

“I’m fine,” he muttered when Harry came towards the bed. “You don’t have to hang around.”

Harry huffed and Draco narrowed his eyes at him, “Forgive me if I don’t believe your definition of ‘fine’,” Harry said.

They stared at each other for a moment before Harry looked suddenly away, sitting down in Madam Pomfrey’s vacated chair like the strength in his legs had just left him.

“I thought-“ Harry started softly and then choked, “I thought I was watching you die.” He stared blankly at the floor, “Like Cedric all over again.”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that so he stayed silent, his head down as he picked at a loose thread on the sheets. Cedric had been kind, honourable, well-loved. Draco was none of those things.

“I think Mr Malfoy could do with getting some sleep now, Harry,” Madam Pomfrey said gently.

“I don’t- I’m fine,” Draco protested. And he really _was_ , for the first time in a while, but Madam Pomfrey sent him a disapproving look.

“I know you’re fine, dear,” she said. “ _I_ healed you,” she smiled gently. “But it won’t do you any harm to let your body recover. Those ribs need to set properly now and you’re going to be a little dizzy for a while.” Draco pressed his lips together to stop himself protesting that he’d been through far worse, but actually, the prospect of lying here without any pain and doing nothing for a few hours was appealing. He could do the homework tonight.

“Fine,” he muttered and slid back down under the sheets, turning over to put his back to Harry. Madam Pomfrey made a noise of satisfaction.

“I’ll…er,” Harry said, “just stay here, if that’s okay?” Draco was silent. Having Harry sit there was actually kind of nice but he couldn’t say that.

He shrugged wordlessly, the sheet on top of him shifting with the movement. He settled down further and since he didn’t hear Harry move away, he assumed that the Gryffindor had decided to stay. He tried to ignore how that made a quiet sort of happiness blossom in his chest and let himself slide back into sleep.


	11. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has a visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi peeps, hope you enjoy this one!
> 
> [Edit 7/9/18: this is now definitely the last chapter. I had been considering writing more but this is where I originally finished the fic and this is where I think it is best ended. I really hope everyone has enjoyed the painful but i hope rewarding journey :)]

He startled awake with a sharp inhale. There had been a silver snake whose green eyes seemed to follow him, “Useless,” the snake said and he tried to run and couldn’t, his limbs heavy as lead. His own pleading echoed in his ears before a voice said, “ _Crucio_ ,” and he arched up and away, sobbing.

He lashed out as he surfaced, not attacking but struggling, fighting against whatever was pinning him down. A hand caught his forearm and Draco froze, his eyes coming open groggily to find green ones looking down at him; not the cold, glittering green of the snake but Harry’s warm ones, staring down at him with inexplicable concern.

“Draco?”

Draco sagged down against the bed and laid his arm over his face in humiliation, “What do _you_ want?” he said roughly, his throat sore and dry from whatever had come out of his mouth whilst he was asleep. Stupid fucking nightmare, and with Harry Potter sat _right there_ , hearing every pathetic noise that came out of his mouth. Draco inwardly squirmed with self-disgust.

“I don’t want anything,” Harry said quietly and Draco sighed.

“ _I_ want some water,” he said irritably and then flinched when Harry suddenly stood up. Harry stilled and their eyes met briefly before Harry moved away, more slowly. Draco closed his eyes briefly, angry with his own reactions.

Draco heard a tap run but he still wasn’t expecting it when Harry came back to stand over him with a glass of water, “Here,” he said, prompting Draco to take it, which he did, their fingers touching briefly when Draco wrapped his fingers around the cool glass. Draco avoided looking at Harry.

Holding the water steady, Draco put his other arm under himself to lift himself, bracing for pain, but there was none. It still surprised him.

Once he was upright, he eyed the water for a moment, glancing at Harry, before bringing it to his lips and greedily swallowing it down. He’d drank about half before he lowered it, cupping the condensation-damp glass between his palms in his lap. He looked over at Harry and licked his damp lips, catching Harry watching him. Harry met Draco’s gaze and ducked his head, though not fast enough to cover the red flush that spread over his skin. Draco stared at him. Harry…was embarrassed?

Draco turned quickly away and clenched his jaw. He should go and do something, not just lie around being lazy and useless when he was fine, and he put the glass clumsily down on the table beside the bed before shuffling forwards until his legs were hanging over the edge.

“What’re you doing?” Harry said, sounding slightly alarmed.

“Leaving,” Draco muttered. He felt rumpled and slightly out of place and he combed embarrassed fingers through his hair.

“But,” Harry started and then didn’t continue.

“Oh, Draco, dear,” Madam Pomfrey’s voice came suddenly as she hurried into the room and Draco looked up sharply from where he’d been about to put his shoes on, which were lined up neatly beside the bed, “You’re awake, that’s good. Your father’s come to see you.”

Draco gripped the mattress as his stomach twisted violently and panic crawled over his skin. He did nothing but look down as he swallowed as the tap of his father’s cane announced him.

“Draco,” Lucius said and Draco forced himself to lift his chin and straighten his spine. He was glad he was sat upright and not lying down. He felt vulnerable enough as it was, even though he knew his father wouldn’t harm him, not in front of Madam Pomfrey and the damn Chosen One. But his father’s cold blue eyes and perfectly straight, white-blond hair still made something seize up inside of him.

“Father,” he murmured, before inwardly cringing. His father hated mumbling and Draco caught the slight twitch of his father’s lips, the only outward sign of his disgust.

His father approached and Draco watched him silently, though he couldn’t hold his father’s icy gaze. There was such loathing there, barely hidden beneath his façade of impassiveness.

Draco saw his father’s eyes move to Harry and his eyebrows lifted just slightly, the motion small enough that Draco doubted anyone else would have noticed, but it sent a cold shiver down Draco’s spine as he read the hatred there.

“Mr Potter,” his father said smoothly, his lips up-ticking just slightly into a small, empty smirk. “What a surprise.”

Draco had the completely ridiculous urge to defend Harry, to move in front of him and stop his father from looking at him.

Harry didn’t say a word but Draco saw that his face had gone hard and cold, and not in the way that Draco’s father’s did, but cold with suppressed emotion instead of disgust.

“How are you?” His father said stiffly to Draco.

“Well, thank you, father,” Draco said, equally awkwardly. They didn’t talk like this, ever, but his father was putting on a pretence and Draco had to comply.

“Will you excuse us, Mr Potter?” His father said and Draco stiffened. It was fine, still fine, because Madam Pomfrey was right there and his father wouldn’t do anything now. He wouldn’t. But it didn’t stop his brain from sending panicked signals to his heart that made it thump in his chest, his stomach contracting in instinctive fear.

Harry stood with blatant dislike on his face, catching Draco’s eyes once before he strode away, though he didn’t go further than the other end of the ward.

His father elegantly took a seat beside Draco’s bed, lifting his cane to lay over his thighs, and Draco’s breathing caught briefly, watching the black length of hard wood. The green eyes of the snake atop it seemed to watch him.

“A Quidditch accident, the nurse tells me,” his father said lowly.

“Yes, father,” Draco said.

“Clumsiness is an ugly trait in a boy.”

Draco swallowed, “Yes, father,” he said softly.

Lucius’s hand shot out suddenly and landed, violently-tight, on Draco’s thigh, gripping it, “ _Don’t mumble_ ,” he hissed, and then snatched his hand back angrily, like Draco had provoked him. Which he had. He knew his father hated mumbling, he knew that.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to be clearer, but not necessarily louder, because of the nearby listening ears.

“Don’t be _sorry_ ,” his father snapped derisively, getting abruptly to his feet and making Draco flinch sharply, before he forced himself still, “just stop wasting my time. You aren’t worthy of it.”

Draco nodded, “Yes, father.” He _wasn’t_ worth the time.

Lucius made a show of gripping Draco’s shoulder, as if in comfort, but his grip was bruising and Draco had to force his expression neutral, something which he had plenty of practice at. Then his father walked away and Draco stared numbly at the floor below his feet, feeling the sensory echoes of his father’s touch on his skin and wanting to rub it away.

The door clicked as his father left and Draco forced himself to raise his head. He met Harry’s gaze and stilled, staring at him. Harry stared back and it was _knowing_ , it was far too knowing. And, if Draco had needed it confirmed, Harry looked after where Draco’s father had gone and his fist clenched beside his side.

Draco was shocked to silence because _Merlin help him, no-one could know_ \- and he watched, the breath knocked out of him as Harry came over to him with his eyes never leaving Draco’s face and sat carefully down on the bed next to him.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Draco ordered, pleaded, in a whisper.

Harry’s eyebrows lowered and Draco warily leaned backwards at the dark glow in the Gryffindor’s eyes, “I have to,” he said, certain as the sun. “This is _wrong_.”

Draco grit his teeth and clenched his hands in his lap, “Please,” he hissed, “please. Harry.”

Harry looked at him with a measure of understanding that no-one had shown him before. His mother’s eyes spoke to him with pity, his father’s disgust, his Slytherin friends showed him grudging respect with occasional affection. But Harry showed care and anger and _understanding_ so deep that it made Draco’s eyes sting, even as he was furious.

“Draco,” Harry said, too gently, “I know.” He looked down away from Draco, “I lived in a cupboard for most of my childhood, because my family considered me an embarrassment.” Draco’s breath caught in his chest in disbelief. How could anyone think the Boy Who Lived an embarrassment? How? Harry looked up again and smiled tightly, painfully.

“My aunt and uncle are muggles,” Harry explained, and Draco tensed with ingrained disgust. “They hated my kind. _Wizards_ ,” Harry said and Draco scowled at muggle stupidity. Harry gestured vaguely with his hand, “Not that I knew what I was before I got the Hogwarts letter, I just thought they hated me, that there was something wrong with _me_.” Draco found himself nodding and made himself stop. “They thought I was abnormal, and shoved me away out of sight and gave me every reason to think I was- an embarrassment, a complete fuck-up. But then I came here, and everyone seemed to know about me, and it was weird.” Harry was silent a moment, “But I wish someone had taken me out of that cupboard, Draco, and told me that I wasn’t something to be ashamed of. That I was someone worthy of love.” Draco startled when Harry took Draco’s hand, staring down at the contact and wanting to shake it off and push Harry away, but unable to. “Because we all are,” Harry said solemnly. “We’re all worthy of love.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Draco breathed.

Harry just squeezed his hand, “I know you,” Harry said, with that same certainty, “and you’re a little shit,” he quirked an awkward smile, “but I know that I’m right.”

Draco laughed weakly, incredulous and exhausted, before he dissolved into silent tears. Harry knew, he _knew_ , and everything was falling apart but Draco was just so tired. He was trying, he was always trying and yet it was never enough.

Harry tried to put his arms around Draco’s shoulders to hold him but Draco pushed him away, only for Harry to hold on harder.

“It’s going to be okay,” Harry murmured and Draco cried into his shoulder.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments, or on tumblr at maqcyloup, my anon asks are always open <3 Thanks for reading!


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